


Hodgins has a weird sex dream.

by TheCheerfulPornographer



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Dream Sex, Hodgins is secretly a kinky bastard, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterward, he blames that goddamn painting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hodgins has a weird sex dream.

He doesn't remember how he got there. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them, trying to clear them. Was it drugs? The past is just a fog. 

He knows that he is bound, his wrists and ankles encircled with heavy leather cuffs, and he knows that he is naked. And he knows somehow that that's okay. That it is right, it is fine. It is not cause for concern.

He doesn't remember how he knows this. 

The blackness covering his vision remains. When he focuses, Jack can detect the pressure and slipperiness of a very fine fabric pressed against the skin of his cheeks. Probably silk. It makes a very effective blindfold, comfortable but also totally effective. He can't see a thing. 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in and holds it. Releases it. As he does, he starts to realize that he's getting an erection. 

There's something about the pleasant strain in the muscles of his arms and legs, as they stay tense to keep him in position. Standing spread-eagled, arms and legs held wide apart. Something that he really, _really_ likes about the sense of safety, of utter security, that he gets from being so restrained. From being held completely helpless, forced to rely entirely upon the actions of someone... 

Of someone he completely trusts. 

He hears light footsteps behind him, and Jack remembers that he already knew that he was not alone. There's somebody else in the room, someone who walks up and then pauses right behind him. His heartbeat picks up. He can hear it beating louder. 

His dick gets harder, and he unintentionally pushes his hips forward, trying fruitlessly to thrust against the air. This changes his gravity, and for a moment he has to fight to keep his balance. Just as he's regained it, a hand rests against his shoulder, warm against his skin. 

"Jack Hodgins," the voice says quietly to him. "You look _really_ hot like that." It's a male voice, low and very pleasant to Jack's ears. He can feel breath against his cheek from the speaker. 

It's Wendell, of course. He can't remember how he knows that, but he knows it as well as he knows the life-cycle of a blowfly. Of course it's Wendell. Who else would it be? 

A hand suddenly wraps around his cock, and he sways in his bonds as it begins to stroke him up and down, setting up a teasingly slow rhythm. "So," Wendell says in a matter-of-fact voice, while continuing to stroke him, "here's what's going to happen. I know you can't see it, but I'm holding a whip here. You remember it? The one you were playing around with in the lab the other day? And you sure did enjoy that an awful lot. Couldn't put it down, if I remember correctly."

A thin cord of some kind snakes down the line of Jack's back, making him shiver. He remembers that whip very well, in strangely vivid detail. This will be just the tip of it, then, tickling a line down his spine. But soon enough, it'll be giving him a whole lot more than that.

"You seemed like such a big fan of this whip, so I'm going to use it on you. I'm going to whip you all over your stomach and your chest, and your back, and especially your ass. Then, after you're all stinging and red and warm, all loosened up and blissed out on endorphins, I'm going to fuck your gorgeous ass. I'll do this until I come inside of you. And then, if you've been really good and obedient and tight and submissive, I might let you come too." Jack nods rapidly, even though the Master didn't ask him a question. "Alright, then. Let's get to it." 

A few seconds later, the whip cracks right in front of him, just inches from his skin. He flinches backward automatically, but it isn't enough to save him from the stinging blow that falls across his lower stomach, and wraps up almost to his nipple. He finds himself straining every muscle; he can't tell if he's stretching away from the whip, or toward it.

That first stroke is followed quickly by another and another. The pain rises up like a red fire that creeps through him, crowding out every other sensation. It fills his brain. He hasn't finished gasping from one blow before the Master lays another. 

It's perfect. 

He can't escape it, so he just has to ride with it. 

Between one moment and the next, he settles down and accepts that fact. When he does, it's like something flips inside his brain. The pain is still there and it's still pain, but somehow he doesn't reject it any longer. As the Master moves on from his burning chest and stomach and begins to lay the whip across his untouched ass and back, he welcomes it. He _enjoys_ it. 

He lets it change him, lets it do whatever it wants. He is no longer struggling or flinching. The part within himself that is proud and willful has finally been pushed down, and now he glories in it. Glories in serving the Master, in pleasing him in every possible way. In serving someone else, someone who deserves it. And most of all, in totally submitting. 

The Master continues to whip him briskly, until his back and ass are just as welted and burning as his front is. The whole time, Jack hangs there, feeling amazing. Like he's in some kind of an exulted state, or like he's achieved nirvana. The whip cracks over him again and again, making him jerk and flinch and cry out despite himself, and Jack glories in it. 

And then the Master stops, at exactly the right time. Just before it was about to become too much. Too deep.

There's an edge there, and Jack's not sure what would happen if he were to fall over. He's pretty sure he doesn't ever want to find out. But the Master knows where that edge is, of course he does. He knows it as well as Jack himself does. And so he stopped. 

Everything's silent for a minute. Jack realizes that he can't feel the floor, even though he knows that it's beneath him. 

That's really weird.

He's distracted from the thought when hands, broad and rough from physical labour, grab both of his hips. He hears the sound of a zipper unzipping, and a second later he feels the unmistakeable blunt press of a cock against his ass. The hands around his hips pull him backward as far as his bonds will let him go, grinding them against one another. Jack whimpers. 

His whimper slides into a moan and then becomes a shout as the Master slips the thick tip of his cock into the dimple of Jack's asshole. Jack is far too worn to clench his muscles; just as the Master intended, he stays loose and relaxed. The Master pushes his way deeper. His cock is thick, pleasantly stretching and filling Jack's ass. When it's fully buried, it presses hard against his prostate. 

Jack screams loudly. It's not exactly a scream of pain. He isn't sure what it is, really; it's just sensation. All kinds of sensation, all rolled up together. 

It's not the sort of thing most people ever get to feel. 

The Master fucks him deeply, out and back. He starts out slow, grinding forward against Jack's ass and then withdrawing with incredible, teasing slowness. He speeds up gradually, fucking Jack faster and harder, until eventually he is slapping his hips hard against Jack's ass. He thrusts forward with abandon while he swings Jack back and forth. 

Jack is completely helpless to control anything about his position or his movements. He can't do anything about what's happening to him — although at the same time, he feels like some deep-down layer in his brain is trying to tell him something different. 

He does his best to ignore that weird sensation. There's some kind of thought that's looming over him, but hasn't quite connected. He doesn't care; he doesn't want to know. He wants to focus on this feeling of being fucked, and having to just take it. To take whatever the Master decides to deal out, and to like it. 

Not that it's difficult to like it. 

The Master speeds up so much, fucking Jack so hard and so deeply, that Jack can hear the Master panting and feel his sweat dripping down onto Jack's back. They're both slippery with it. Jack's voice goes hoarse from screaming, and after that, he falls into silent sobs. Tears spring to his eyes, and then run in tracks down his cheeks, flowing over his chest and then his belly. 

He lets the intense sensation claim him, and surrenders himself completely. 

An orgasm is hovering in the darkness at the corners of Jack's vision, deep and intense. He strains toward it, but he can't quite reach it. Not without a little help.

The Master finally lets out a loud, hoarse shout and plunges hard into Jack. Jack thinks that the Master is inside of him deeper than anyone has ever been inside of him before. When he's buried to the hilt, Wendell reaches a hand around and slides it over Jack's straining cock. He pumps it once, twice... On the third time, Jack finally tips over the edge. 

He shakes and shudders and cries out. His restraints are the only things keeping him upright, and not collapsing onto that weird floor that he still can't feel. He can, however, easily feel Wendell spasming inside of him, spurting his sticky wetness all over Jack, inside and out. Claiming him. He can feel it, and at the same time, he can feel his own come shooting up onto his red, stinging abdomen. His orgasm, their orgasms, seem to go on for forever, both of them locked like that. Weirdly suspended, like time froze.

It's intense. It's kind of mindblowing. And suddenly, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, Jack knows with total certainty that it's all a dream. 

Of course it's a dream. There's no way this could be real. The Master is a projection, a creation of Jack's subconscious to act out his (apparently much stronger than he previously realized) wish to be dominated. It's all so obvious, once you get a clear look at it.

All, that is, except for one thing.

Why Wendell?

**********

Jack Hodgins sits bolt upright in the bed, gasping. 

He's covered in sweat; his curly hair is drenched with it, and the sheets are sticking to him. They're even stickier around the area of his thighs. He looks down and groans. He hasn't had a wet dream like that in years. 

He looks over at Angela; fortunately, she's still sleeping. He'll still have to explain to her what happened, and why he's mysteriously changing the sheets, but it will be way less embarrassing when he's got more distance from the memory of that insanely freaky sex dream. He hopes. 

He's known for a long time that he has a submissive and slightly masochistic streak. It sort of goes with the territory. Goes along with a brain like the one that he has. But he's also less sexually experienced, and a lot less comfortable with talking frankly about it, than most people tend to assume. (Which, among other things, explains why he still hasn't gotten around to asking Angela if she would paint him.) 

So what happened in the dream, with the whipping and all of that, was way more intense than anything he's ever tried. With Angie, or with anybody else. And then, on top of that, his brain had to pick Wendell to be the Master. 

He's not bothered that it was a man; there's no crisis in that regard. Jack has known he's bisexual since he was fifteen, and he's already out to everyone who needs to know. That list currently consists of his wife, his two best friends from college, Zack Addy, everyone he's ever dated, and Dr. Brennan. 

She, alone on that entire list, had figured it out based entirely upon observation. Then, when Hodgins asked her how she knew, she delivered an off-the-cuff lecture on the history of bisexuality in ancient Polynesian cultures that lasted for a good 15 minutes. 

Even in his current sleep-fogged state, the memory of that lecture makes Jack smile. He knows her well enough to understand what she was saying. 

But Wendell? That one really came out of nowhere. 

...Didn't it?

He looks over at the painting. That goddamned painting that's still propped against the wall, waiting for Angela to... do whatever she's going to do with it. He looks at it for a few seconds, and then he quietly curses to himself. 

He can't deny that he's been looking forward to Wendell's shifts way more than those of the other interns. That's been true for a long time, actually, but maybe it's gotten stronger lately. Maybe he's been teasing Wendell more, finding any excuse to poke and prod at him. Like all of that nonsense about Wendell's birthday. Jack doesn't treat any of the other interns like that.

It's just that when Wendell gives Jack his attention, like when they're teasing one another or blowing something up together, it feels like warm sunlight on Jack's face. He just wants to bask in it. In Wendell's attention... 

Fuck. Oh, fuckity fuck fuck. 

Jack groans, and buries his face in his hands. He does not have his first gay crush in like five years on an _intern_. A _straight_ intern, by all available evidence. 

A straight intern who _used to date Jack's wife_. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him? 

It's just that Wendell is smart and funny and very, very attractive. And his smile, the way he grips a scalpel, the way his ass looks in jeans... 

Goddamn it. 

Jack stands up, tries to push the thought aside. Stretches, and makes his way around the bed to the door of the bathroom for a shower. Unfortunately, he knows that it's going to take a lot more than water to wash away his awkward guilt, or the knowledge of his attraction to Wendell. That dream... 

He begins to replay it in his mind, and ends up getting hard again in the shower. He jerks himself off slowly, and then faster. Bending forward with one hand behind him, one slick finger circling the rim of his hole. Dragging over tender nerves. The other hand frantically pumping in front of him, he comes for a second time. It hurts a little. 

He feels wrung-out and sore, like he's been bound and whipped in real life. He hasn't felt this good after sex in months. He closes his eyes and leans into the hot water, letting it wash all of the sweat and come away. He tries to forget the imagined sensation of Wendell's cock pushing in between his thighs, but when he closes his eyes he still remembers it quite clearly. 

What the hell is he going to do about this?


End file.
